Snares for the Soul
by Daradash
Summary: "It's such an obvious ploy. And there is no reason Voldemort should be amused by Potter's gall or stumped by the open wonder on his face. The boy is a bloody menace and Voldemort needs to get rid of him, but there's just something so enticing about him that the Dark Lord can't quite resist." Harrymort, promiscuous Harry, minor Harry/Blaise, Harry/Pansy, one-sided Snape/Harry


**Author's note:** So, I've been missing in fandom action for almost a year now. I feel like I should write some tearful explanation but I'm afraid I don't really have one. I'm just going to assume that you guys are here for the story and not my ramblings and just leave you to it. Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

 **Snares for the Soul**

* * *

Voldemort barely remembers him from their earlier encounters. He hardly paid enough attention to the baby when first saw him and in their later meeting it was a struggle to separate his own impressions from Quirrell's pathetic quivering thoughts. In his mind Harry Potter was reduced to bright green stare and insolence.

This time it would be different, of course. Voldemort plans to savour every little detail from the initial defiance to the final wide-eyed shock as the inevitability of death settles in. That thought is what keeps him focused through the excruciating pain of boiling water and dark magic fusing his new body together.

His fingers, where they grip the rim of the cauldron, are long and spidery, thin with large knuckles, unnaturally grey skin pulled tight over the bones. He would be appalled at how ugly it looks but it doesn't matter when he is breathing for the first time in years. He rises out of the cauldron taking in slow deep lungfuls. How incredible it is to feel the strength in his own limbs, to enjoy the faint scratch of fabric on his skin as Wormtail hands him a robe. As he covers his own unfamiliar form, he decides he rather likes that his appearance lost all traces of his muggle father. He used his pretty face well while he had it but there is no need for that anymore. _I am Lord Voldemort._ Feared and worshipped above all else.

Thinking of his father he turns to the boy currently tied to his gravestone. And finds a pair of curious green eyes staring back at him.

Despite being tied from neck to ankle, Potter manages to look like he's just leaning on the headstone with casual grace. His head is tilted to one side, his windswept hair framing his face nicely. Even as the Dark Lord approaches, the boy doesn't look afraid, doesn't flinch or turn away, but rather lifts his chin up in a challenge. There is a mocking kind of interest in his eyes as they slowly slide down from Voldemort's face to where his robes part slightly and reveal deadly pale skin stretched over jutting ribs.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort murmurs suppressing the wave of irritation at such a cheap provocation. It doesn't help that his fingers almost itch with the reflexive need to cover himself. "At last you and I are truly face to face."

He runs one long ghastly finger down the boy's cheek, strangely fascinated by the contrast between his white skin and Potter's sun-kissed face. Strange. The moment their skin touches, a deep and almost sweet ache tugs at Voldemort's insides, as though calling him to come closer. Perhaps it's the result of their new connection – Potter's blood striving to go home.

"Interesting, isn't it? By taking your blood to create this new body I also took away your mother's protection." Just to prove his point, he slides his finger down Potter's jaw and grips his neck tightly.

The brat's breathing hitches but he still doesn't look afraid. Instead those big green eyes seem almost transfixed with strange awe and curiosity. Voldemort can feel the boy's adam's apple moving as he swallows. Slightly chapped lips part gently and a pink tongue darts out to moisten them. It is a trap for frail spirits but Potter doesn't even seem to realise what he's doing as he stands there half-smiling in defiance, looking like a little minx. Suddenly killing the boy seems like such a waste. It's quite easy to imagine conquering Potter in a completely different way, taking, wrecking and possessing him entirely.

Potter is… beautiful. It's quite an unwelcome realisation and the Dark Lord lets go of him as though that soft skin still burns him.

He turns away and calls Wormtail. He thinks he can hear Potter chuckle softly but ignores it. It doesn't matter if the brat guessed what went through the Dark Lord's mind. He won't live to tell the tale anyway.

He calls his Death Eaters and waits as one by one they arrive and _crawl_ and _beg_ for his forgiveness. But Lord Voldemort does not forgive and does not forget. And, as he tells his followers that they would have to earn his regard, he also knows that he won't forget the fleeting looks of terror and disgust that flicker in their eyes. They find his new form revolting. _Useless fools. They don't understand..._

His gaze flits to Potter again and finds him, just like before, staring back at him with a mocking smirk and an almost childlike fascination hidden in his eyes. Voldemort feels fury rising in him like a tidal wave, making him want to tear apart this frozen mask and see what the boy is hiding underneath it. To see if he is as terrified of the Dark Lord's appearance as the Death Eaters are, to see what makes the pest think he can laugh and flaunt himself in front of the most powerful wizard alive.

He points his wand at Potter and holds him under Crucio. His forked tongue curls in sadistic pleasure as he watches that lean body twist and contort in agony. The boy bites his lip to stop himself from screaming and squeezes his eyes shut. Somehow he still looks exquisite in his anguish, at once strong and powerless and more alive than anything Voldemort has ever seen.

He cuts the curse off.

"You see, I think, how foolish it was to suppose that this boy could ever have been stronger than me," the Dark Lord addresses his Death Eaters. His eyes are still glued to Potter, watching as he recovers from the curse. His face lost the arrogant look but what comes instead is not terror or shocked realisation. The boy looks resentful. Like he is _angry_ with Voldemort for _torturing_ him.

Little nuisance is impossible to comprehend, and Voldemort ignores the part of himself that strives to somehow _solve_ Potter and plunges on, "I want there to be no mistake in anybody's mind. Harry Potter escaped me by pure luck. And I am now going to prove my power by killing him, here and now, in front of you all. I will give him his chance. He will be allowed to fight, and you will be left in no doubt which of us is the stronger," his deadly gaze circles his followers, noting how they flinch and tremble before him. "Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand."

He watches Potter as the boy spares Pettigrew one scathing look before rubbing his sore wrists. His thin body seems very fragile, but his hands, when they grip the wand, are steady and sure. Bravely – _stupidly_ – Potter straightens his back, lifts up his chin with a quiet kind of pride and faces the Dark Lord.

Then, as both of them bow, the little shit whispers softly, "You don't really want to kill me, _Tom_."

And just like that, they begin to duel.

Fighting Potter is like trying to capture fire. He jumps, and dives, and rolls and laughs youthfully as he does so. His juvenile antics are not enough to protect him from Voldemort though. The older wizard is more than capable with a wand and he's had much more cunning opponents. He takes some time to toy with Potter, sending him minor hexes and mostly just taunting him. But all the while dangerous red eyes study the boy obsessively, registering every reaction and every reflex, preparing one deadly strike that won't give Potter any chance to escape.

Voldemort is about to launch this final barrage of spells when Potter switches tactics and shoots back a stunner. He misses by a mile, hitting Macnair instead but it throws the Dark Lord off momentarily. In fact, it takes Voldemort an extra second to realise that Potter _didn't really miss_. In that second the boy dashes through the newly opened gap in the circle of Death Eaters and jumps behind one of the tombstones.

"We are not playing hide-and-seek, Harry," Voldemort calls softly even as something inside him thrills at the new turn of events. Perhaps, this battle would be more interesting than he thought. "Come out and play, boy. I promise you it would be quick…"

Potter laughs from behind his cover and the Dark Lord smiles a little too. With an almost lazy flick of his wrist he explodes the headstone the boy is hiding behind, forcing him to dive behind another one.

"You are no fun!" Potter calls again dashing to another grave. His voice sounds like it's coming from several directions at once and Voldemort is torn between grudging approval of the nifty little trick and irritation because Potter is _still running_.

"Stop hiding like a scared rodent and face me like a man, Potter!" he calls out before shattering several more gravestones in quick succession. The boy is nowhere to be seen. "Well then..."

With an easy swipe of his wand Voldemort reigns destruction upon the cemetery. The ground trembles and cracks in long jagged lines – like welts left by a powerful whip. One by one the headstones explode with chunks of marble and granite flying in all directions, colliding and striking out bright sparks. Potter has the sense to jump up and start running in zigzags, covering his head with his hands. Voldemort watches him for a moment, then apparates directly in front of him. The boy digs his heels into the ground abruptly, nearly toppling over. One of his hands shoots out instinctively, grabbing Voldemort's shoulder to keep himself from falling. It's so ridiculous that Voldemort doesn't even bother to stop him. Instead he points his wand at the boy. Green light shines and gathers at its tip when the brat opens his damned mouth again.

"You win. I can see why all of them follow you like brainless lemmings," he cocks his eyebrow at the Dark Lord, casual as you'd like, "Doesn't quite explain why they all betrayed you thirteen years ago."

He has to dive sideways to avoid a curse immediately. Just because the boy is right doesn't mean he's going to get any special favours from the Dark Lord.

"What does it matter to you, Potter? You won't live to see another sunrise."

"I guess I just hate to see all that potential go to waste," Potter replies, righting himself and stepping closer again. "Because they don't get it, do they?" His eyes shine like the Killing Curse and for a moment Voldemort stares, mesmerised. "They never will. It's pathetic, really. They are all so afraid of you, yet they think that they can somehow _use_ you. You can do better."

"Really, Potter? I suppose you are offering?"

Harry doesn't reply. He takes one more step closer and tilts his face up. Soft pink lips part slightly as though in offering. It's such an obvious ploy. And there is no reason Voldemort should be amused by Potter's gall or stumped by the open wonder on his face. The boy is a bloody _menace_ and Voldemort needs to get rid of him, but there's just something so enticing about him that the Dark Lord can't quite resist. Red eyes trail over smooth skin and flushed cheeks and his mind is once again assaulted by visions of that supple body twisted in pleasure, submitting to him completely.

Then, before Voldemort even knows whether he's going to kill the boy or just give in to this temptation and take him, the brat suddenly dashes right past him, grabs Diggory's hand and the softly glowing Goblet and disappears.

* * *

He soon discovers that their connection runs much deeper than he anticipated when he so carelessly took the boy's blood to create his new body. Potter is there, in the shadows of his dreams all through the next year. He lingers and flickers in the darkest corners of his mind whenever Voldemort has the courage to look closely. Like mosquitos buzzing in his ear, the boy's disappointment and disgust are always there when the Dark Lord is at his lowest, when rage and paranoia colour the world in bright shades of blood red and Killing Curse green. Potter is a nuisance and yet…

Voldemort's entire existence has always relied on his ability to adapt and use his own bottomless pit of misery as his greatest weapon. He soon finds out that constant mild annoyance he feels at Potter's presence can be quite helpful in grounding himself in reality. In his dark and gloomy mind the boy is a bright spot of light and warmth that shines through the thick fog of insanity that sometimes fills Voldemort's head. Like a snake that he is, he slithers to that spot basking in the heat Potter exudes. If the boy notices that he is being used to calm the Dark Lord's frantic thoughts, he doesn't seem to object.

But that is not even the most important discovery that comes with their connection. It doesn't take long for Voldemort to come up with a way to use Potter to get what he wants. The brat thinks he is smart for foiling his plans by using their connection, so he doesn't hesitate when Voldemort invites him into his dreams and shows him the dim corridors of the Department of Mysteries. The boy jumps at the chance to thwart the Dark Lord, not realising he is being led into a trap.

* * *

All in all, it was a brilliant plan, Voldemort decides as he looks at the boy kneeling at his feet, defenceless and defeated. It's rather unfortunate that his Death Eaters have _still_ managed to lose the prophecy but he is certain he can extract it from Potter's memory. Not to mention, the brat has spent so much time snooping around his mind, it is only fair that Voldemort returns the favour. He looks into those lovely, _lovely_ green eyes, swimming in pain and abject betrayal and… dives in.

The pain is so sudden and all-encompassing, it almost makes him jerk back out again. Even though his logical mind tells him that it's only a phantom, his whole body feels raw, like his skin was flayed off his flesh and red hot needles are pricking his exposed nerve endings. Dazedly Voldemort realises that this must be what Potter is feeling right now and he takes a moment to admire him for being able to even _breathe_ through this agony. The Dark Lord is no stranger to pain, however, so he gathers himself and plunges on.

It only gets worse from there.

Potter's whole existence is torture at the moment, the vision of his godfather falling through the Veil playing over and over again in his mind, as though his brain is determined to torment him as much as possible. But underneath that there's an even more terrifying maelstrom of emotion that takes Voldemort's breath away. If he was able to simply look at it from the outside, he might have been curious to examine how one person can even feel that much in a single moment. But Potter's head is not a science lab where one can explore safely. Wave after wave of confusing painful tangles of feelings sweep Voldemort off his feet making it impossible to set a semi-straight course and find the boy's knowledge of the prophecy. Harry's thoughts are running frantically from one of his friends to another, as though worrying about their fate can help them in any way. The Dark Lord would have taken this as an opportunity to learn the names and faces of the brat's loved ones but people and memories are flashing before him too quickly to fully register. And even those that he can see clearly, like the Weasley boy or bushy-haired mudblood, are surrounded by so many contradictions, Voldemort isn't quite sure they are really that dear to the boy.

He pushes them away, trying to see through the whirlwind of thoughts but then there's Dumbledore's face and blinding hope blocking his way. It burns and Voldemort descends further to where memories lie just to get away from the hurricane of Potter's thoughts. He tries to grasp the most recent ones, however the boy must have sensed what he's trying to do because they shift and dance just out of his reach. Instead he sees Potter laughing about some inane thing with the Weasley boy, while the mudblood – _Hermione_ , the brat's mind supplies warmly, _lovely and smart and wonderful and also so very annoying_ – rolls her eyes at them. Voldemort pushes it aside but then there's more pain because Potter is writing _I must not tell lies_ , his fingers shaking as they grip a Blood Quill and a woman dressed in truly disturbing shades of pink smiles sweetly at him.

He burrows deeper into the boy's mind, trying to find something, _anything_ just to end this madness. Suddenly there's a wave of intense pleasure and Potter is moaning loudly like a common whore, gripping the sheets. It's surreal and it makes Voldemort pause and stare as the boy's sweat beads and slides down the curve of his spine. Some faceless dark skinned stranger – _Blaise Zabini_ , Potter inserts, _a pompous arse but a glorious cock_ – is gripping his hips giving him a ride of a lifetime. And Potter... Potter looks euphoric. His face is twisted in pleasure and he keeps making those beautiful noises...

Voldemort pushes the memory away abruptly and for a second he can even see a sphere filled with milky smoke-like substance falling to the ground but Potter snatches it away and slips him another one full of ecstasy and sensual groans. Potter is with a girl this time – _Pansy Parkinson, lovely but so, so bitter_ – her bright red nails are leaving scratch marks on his back as his hips piston rhythmically. They move together and find perfect sync with ease no teenager should ever know, yet kiss with all the glossy awkwardness one may expect from children their age. Harry's movements stutter and freeze at the apex and he shouts his release. He almost smothers the girl as he falls forward and they both lie panting for a few moments. Then, before either of them has a chance to catch their breaths, he's slithering down and down her body and Parkinson is moaning through her own completion.

Voldemort knows that he should leave. He should either sweep the memory aside and try again to find the one he needs, or leave Potter's mind altogether, retreat and prepare for bigger battles than this one. The boy's mind is dangerous, way more dangerous than he would like to admit, and Voldemort's physical body is still strung tight from mixed sequences of intense pleasure and unbearable pain. But Potter is so captivating with his confusing emotions and unpredictability. – _In the memory the boy settling down on the pillow, Parkinson is stroking his chest with sharp tips of her nails._ – And Voldemort is selfish enough to admit that in this moment he wants Potter. He is almost burning with the need to own this strange but beautiful creature.

 _"You are such a pretty little thing for a boy,"_ Parkinson murmurs softly. _"It would be such a shame for the Dark Lord to kill you."_

Some bittersweet melancholy flickers through Potter's mind but in the memory he just sends Parkinson a cocky smirk.

 _"What can I say, not everyone can appreciate my dashing good looks the way you do."_

The girl huffs a laugh but then bites her lip thoughtfully.

 _"You know, my mother has an old family home in Sweden. It's under Fidelius Charm. Nobody could find you there."_

Potter sits up and moves to the edge of the bed turning away from her.

 _"And what then? Spend the rest of my life inside? Read obituaries in the Prophet? Know that each and every one of them is my fault?"_

Parkinson's face crumbles and the memory dissolves.

There are more twisted pleasures assaulting Voldemort's senses but his instincts are bristling in a way that he has always associated with one person. Albus Dumbledore is approaching to cut short his playtime with Potter. Frustrated, Voldemort pushes back towards the surface and into his own mind to find the brat staring up at him with that all too familiar mocking challenge in his eyes. The Dark Lord loathes that look.

"Aren't you a cheap little whore, _Harry_ ," he says softly just to see the boy's eyes flare, "maybe next time we meet, I'll spare some time to appreciate your _dashing good looks_ before I kill you."

"I'll take you up on that," Potter whispers back just as Dumbledore appears at the end of the hall.

* * *

He keeps his distance next year, not willing to admit how much the emotions he felt in Potter's mind – violent, turbulent and entirely unstoppable – terrified him. (He doubly doesn't want to admit how much they aroused him.) Still, he keeps an eye on the boy, mostly through dear Severus.

He watches Potter duel in Snape's class – scrutinising the way he fights but also admiring his grace and strength. He sees him and Severus scowling and snapping at each other and has to smother a very private smile whenever he hears the boy's comebacks. Foolish insolence, yes, but Potter's reckless wit can be quite amusing.

He also senses – after one of the particularly heated exchanges – the almost perverse pleasure that courses through Snape whenever those bright green eyes glare at him. He notices the few times the Professor's eyes stray where they shouldn't look and follow the contours of Potter's body. It appears the Potions Master is not as immune to the brat's merits as he pretends to be.

Voldemort scorns and ridicules him for it, enjoying the way Snape trembles and hides his eyes when his dirty little secret is brought to light.

But, in the privacy of his own mind, Voldemort knows that he, too, is afflicted by this disease. He cannot have Potter, no matter how much he wants – craves – him. And yet some secret part of him grieves each time he thinks about the boy's inevitable demise.

* * *

That day there's a light tremor in Severus' hands as he reaches out to kiss the hem of Voldemort's robe. Interesting. The man stands back up but keeps his head bowed, hiding behind a curtain of greasy hair. _Very interesting_.

"Speak, Severus."

"My Lord." The Potions Master pauses immediately and Voldemort has to fight down the urge to click his tongue impatiently. "Dumbledore has divulged some... new information about Potter." He stops again and Voldemort raises a hairless eyebrow. His patience is wearing thin and that does not bode well for the Potions Master. Still, he keeps an impassive expression and waits. Information about Potter is too important to risk it by losing his temper.

"He... he doesn't expect the boy to survive this war..." Snape swallows before continuing, "In fact, he plans for him not to."

 _Meddling old fool._ A possessive kind of fire flares inside the Dark Lord at these words. Potter is his to destroy, but of course Dumbledore can never resist sticking his crooked nose in everything.

"Show me," he demands and Severus looks into his eyes obediently.

* * *

 _…_

 _"Harry must not know, not until the last moment, not until it is necessary, otherwise how could he have the strength to do what must be done?"_

 _"But what must he do?"_

 _"That is between Harry and me. Now listen closely, Severus. There will come a time – after my death – do not argue, do not interrupt! There will come a time when Lord Voldemort will seem to fear for the life of his snake."_

 _"For Nagini?"_

 _"Precisely. If there comes a time when Lord Voldemort stops sending that snake forth to do his bidding, but keeps it safe beside him under magical protection, then, I think, it will be safe to tell Harry."_

 _"Tell him what?"_

 _"When Lily cast her own life between them as a shield, the Killing Curse rebounded upon Lord Voldemort, and a fragment of Voldemort's soul was blasted apart from the whole, and latched itself onto the only living soul left in that collapsed building. Part of Lord Voldemort lives inside Harry, and while that fragment of soul, unmissed by Voldemort, remains attached to and protected by Harry, Lord Voldemort cannot die."_

 _"So the boy. . . the boy must die?"_

 _"And Voldemort himself must do it, Severus. That is essential."_

 _"You have kept him alive so that he can die at the right moment?"_

 _"The connection between them grows ever stronger, a parasitic growth. Sometimes I have thought he suspects it himself. If I know him, he will have arranged matters so that when he does set out to meet his death, it will truly mean the end of Voldemort."_

* * *

Voldemort recoils from his servant's mind violently, the last threads of the memory burning around him. He pays no attention to Snape's pained groan, as the man sways and falls to his knees. None of it is significant in the face of this new information. Even Severus' traitorous attempt to play for both sides doesn't matter now.

Because unbelievably, incredibly, the boy who was his to kill, turned out to be simply _his_. The world around him breaks and crumbles and then..– falls perfectly into place.

The revelation is not half as shocking as it should be. Something about Potter always called out to him, always tied them together. As hundreds of Voldemort's plans rewrite and rearrange themselves, adapting to the new reality, he realises that he feels strangely lighter. Like it is suddenly easier to breathe. Like he is actually _glad_ that the brat will not die at the end of his wand. He scoffs at the thought and turns his attention back to the man still kneeling at his feet.

"Severus. Bring the boy to me."

* * *

Potter is as infuriating as ever, of course. It's impossible to sneak him out of the castle with Dumbledore watching over him and after the old coot is dead, the boy disappears without a trace. Countless raids and search warrants show no results and Voldemort grows more and more frustrated. He uses his aggravatingly Potter-free time to relocate his horcruxes but that doesn't appease him one bit. The locket and the ring have disappeared, possibly destroyed by Dumbledore, and torturing Lucius for the loss of his diary doesn't bring him as much pleasure. Bella is the only one faithful enough to keep the cup safe but that brings up another conundrum. Bella is a powerful ally and is fiercely loyal to him, but she also killed Potter's godfather and Voldemort knows that if he wants to have the boy by his side, he'll have to get rid of her. He doesn't have any qualms about killing Wormtail, though he keeps the man alive for now. Perhaps, his death would make for a nice present to Potter later. Maybe – and that thought is more arousing than Voldemort is willing to admit – Potter would even kill the rat himself.

...Once they manage to _finally find him_ , he thinks as he dismisses yet another meeting snarling through his teeth. Potter is out there – raiding the Ministry and sneaking around the Diagon Alley – and yet the brat keeps slipping through his fingers.

In the end, he does away with Bella discreetly, spreading a rumour that she's being sent away on some mission. He takes her to the Forbidden Forest one night, under the guise of teaching her some secret dark magic. The crazy bitch almost drools at the prospect.

Nagini has a feast that night.

He thinks the Malfoys may be suspecting something but they seem _relieved_ more than anything. Severus can probably guess as well, but the man keeps his head down and stays quiet. His own life is balanced precariously ever since he came clean about his double crossing. He is, however, their best source of information on Potter's potential whereabouts, so the Dark Lord leaves him be and _waits_.

* * *

Potter comes on his own in the end of winter, waving aside the Manor's magical protections like they are nothing. That may have something to do with the heavy locket hanging on his neck that shrouds the boy in a dark possessive aura.

Voldemort is in the middle of a meeting, because, of course, Potter has to pick the most dramatic moment. The room goes silent as the boy walks in. Some people draw their wands, but none of them are stupid enough to try to attack him. The Dark Lord made it clear that Potter is to be captured and delivered to him but under no circumstances harmed.

Potter stops about halfway between the entrance and Voldemort's seat, leaning his hip casually against the back of Yaxley's chair and making the man squirm – trying to turn and look at Potter, yet also wanting to preserve his stoic and dignified façade. It makes Voldemort's thin lips twitch in amusement.

The Dark Lord turns his attention back to the boy, his eyes slowly sliding over narrow hips and lean legs, up to the collar of an enormous sweater where the Locket's golden chain rests on sharp collarbones. He studies the stubborn jut of the chin and arrogant smirk, and a white-knuckled fist hiding in a long sleeve that betrays the cocky image he so desperately tries to uphold. Still, black tresses are dancing wildly around a delicate face and those bright Killing Curse eyes stare back at him as fierce as ever.

"Leave us," Voldemort snaps at his Death Eaters and immediately they scramble hurriedly out of the room, trying to make as little noise as possible, lest they attract attention. Yaxley almost drops from his chair in his attempt to escape without so much as touching Potter lightly.

The boy watches on in obvious amusement before settling down in one of the vacated seats.

"How did you find out?" Voldemort asks him when they are finally alone.

"I did my research," Potter answers distractedly, his fingers toying with the Locket's chain. His eyes snap back to the Dark Lord before he continues, "I want full amnesty for my friends. And a guarantee of their safety."

Voldemort expected as much from the boy. He tilts his bald head to the side – not quite a concession, but not an outright rejection either.

"I want full pardon for muggleborns too," Potter continues. "You and I both know that a child raised by muggles, not knowing about his magical heritage, can be as fine a wizard as any pureblood."

The impertinent remark almost makes Voldemort reach for his wand and Crucio the cheeky brat. It's been a while since he saw that lithe body twisted in agony... But he must temper such urges. For now. _Don't push your luck, Potter._

"Anything else?" the Dark Lord asks magnanimously.

"One more thing," Potter seems to hesitate before saying it, looking down at his hands for a moment. When he looks back up, there's a determined look in his eyes, "I want Umbridge's head."

Now _that's_ somewhat surprising. It seems that dear Dolores has somehow managed to anger Potter more than the treacherous rat who betrayed his parents.

"Would you like it laid out on a silver platter?"

Potter smirks at that, "I don't really care about decorations."

Voldemort hums thoughtfully. On the one hand, he already has the child where he wants him and there's really no point in these inane negotiations. He can just stun Potter and throw him into a cell where nobody can find him. On the other hand, keeping his horcrux content and close seems like a much better option. The boy's demands are reasonable enough and having him as an ally instead of captive will allow them to finally end this war and senseless spilling of magical blood.

"Should I decide to agree to these conditions," Voldemort begins slowly, "what do I get?"

Potter's smile is so sharp, it can cut diamonds, and when he answers it comes as a seductive hiss of Parceltongue.

 _"~Everything.~"_

* * *

Potter gets himself a deal. Nobody could say that he is a bad negotiator. There is some trouble here and there but overall things go rather smoothly. Most of the wizarding world was already trying to ignore the take over and the Order is weak without its leaders. Voldemort still doesn't reveal himself, preferring to operate from the shadows and create more of a rift in public opinion. The papers are full of new cheerful headlines and people are all the more willing to pretend like nothing has really changed in their world.

 _"Harry Potter Cleared of All Charges. The Ministry joins forces with the Boy Who Lived to find Albus Dumbledore's assassin."_ And all of those who were willing to fight just for Harry (there are surprisingly many of them) are shaking their heads in confusion.

 _"Registered Muggleborns to Have a New School. Muggleborn Registration Commission presents new education policy."_ And most of the blood traitors seem to have forgotten that they were ever mistrustful of the new regime.

 _"Here and Queer. Harry Potter moves in with the Malfoys. Distant family connections or romantic involvement with Malfoy heir?"_ And half the witches and wizards in the country get engrossed in celebrity gossip.

In all of that articles like _"Moffalda Hopkirk for New Head of the MRC. Dolores Umbrage retires to 'travel the world'."_ or _"Negotiations Continue. British Ministry of Magic demands France deport all known fugitives."_ go largely unnoticed. People are fickle and easily manipulated. Voldemort smiles privately whenever he hears Potter spluttering over new copy of Daily Prophet at breakfast.

They settle in rather nicely. Potter lives in a room across the hallway from the Dark Lord's and most of the time they don't bother each other. The boy is rather quiet. He doesn't try to discover or disturb Voldemort's plans and mostly seems content studying in the Manor's library or flying over the grounds with younger Malfoy. The Dark Lord thought about forbidding the exercise altogether at first. It seemed like too much of a risk. Potter could fall off and get injured or he could fly away one day and disappear forever. It is unclear which opinion is more troubling. But seeing the boy on a broom... Potter looked like he belonged in the sky. He moved with effortless grace, without caution or restraint. Voldemort couldn't stop him from flying any more than he could stop ancient magic from filling Hogwarts hallways. (Which is to say he could but it would be both criminal and unnatural.)

Even though Potter implied it when they discussed the terms of their arrangement, Voldemort hasn't bedded him yet. Showing his own desires seems like a vulnerability he never wanted to share with anyone. The brat does get under his skin in far too many ways though. Just the way he smiles and flaunts himself around the manor is enough to send the Dark Lord into bouts of fuming rage. One day when he sees Snape talking to Harry, leaning a little too close, he keeps the man under Cruciatus until he has the sense to crawl away a respectable distance.

Potter doesn't seem to mind.

Their fragile equilibrium is shattered one night when Potter forgets to close his door. (Or rather leaves it open on purpose.) Voldemort is about to retire to his own chambers when he passes by and sees Potter undressing to go to bed.

The boy's back is turned and the Dark Lord watches as he tugs off his shirt, one by one revealing knobby ridges of his spine, protruding ribs and razor cut shoulder blades. Voldemort can see supple muscles moving beneath the surface of the skin and can almost taste the warm mammalian blood thrumming through the boy's veins. As Potter flings the shirt off to the side somewhere and shakes out his unruly hair carelessly, Voldemort admits to himself, for the first time since he stepped out of that cauldron, that he is cold, so cold and that he's almost shaking with the need to curl into Potter's irrepressible heat. When Harry steps out of his jeans ( _how terribly muggle_ ) and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of white boxer briefs, the Dark Lord walks into the room and shuts the door behind him.

Potter is too tantalising for his own good and he's clearly gagging for it, so it only seems fair for Voldemort to oblige him. Besides, the boy is his. There's nothing wrong in taking what already belongs to him. For whatever reason, the fate saw it fit to entangle their souls and minds in ways no other wizards could ever hope to understand. And now entwining their bodies feels... inevitable.

Voldemort grips Harry's thin hips, covering his smaller hands with his own. White fingers flex convulsively and almost caress digging into the warmth but it's so faint and _not enough_. Potter shivers lightly before leaning back against the Dark Lord's fully clothed body. He has always seemed to understand the unavoidable nature of their connection far better than the older wizard.

Voldemort buries his face in Harry's neck, breathing in his scent. Light musk of boyish sweat and bittersweet residue of his soap and warmth, such beckoning warmth. Soft black hairs tickle sensitive skin of his slit nostrils. Forked tongue licks a spot under Potter's ear and the boy's breathing turns laboured. Subtly, Harry curves his spine, the back of his head pressing into Voldemort's chest while his backside rubs against the older wizard's pelvis. The Dark Lord's grip on the boy's hips grows tighter, blunt nails raking soft skin – it's the last warning that Potter is going to get. Voldemort is still holding on to the logical part of himself that insists that the boy is nothing but trouble but his normally sharp vision is swimming with heady desire. His instincts are calling back his days in Albania when he would possess some forest critter only to find that it's mating season and no matter how determined he is in his mind, the creature's body is mostly driven by a primal urge to copulate.

Of course, Potter just has to open that damn mouth again.

"So, are we gonna fuck or what?"

And with that the last remains of tenuous control Voldemort has snap and rip apart. He spins the boy around and pushes him onto the queen-sized bed that dominates the room. Harry yelps as his boxers are ripped off forcefully, his prick bouncing and slapping his stomach. In the next moment he's attacking the fastenings of Voldemort's clothes frantically, pushing the black robe off ghostly pale shoulders. He pauses as he takes in the Dark Lord's body. Dainty fingers roam the expanse of white chest stopping where the nipples are supposed to be. Voldemort is no longer human but it is under that wide-eyed gaze that he feels _embarrassed_ for the first time. His own skin is so pale and unnatural against Potter's tanned complexion.

He slaps the boy's hands away and frees his own straining erection from his slacks. He spits on his palm a few times to coat his member with saliva before hoisting Potter's legs on his own shoulders. If the boy ever expected him to be a gentle lover, then he was mistaken.

But Harry takes it all beautifully. His breathing hitches and stutters when he is breached and his eyes are full of such carnal _hunger_. Like he can actually understand the greedy desire that is burning Voldemort alive. The boy undulates beneath him like a snake in the sun and gives as much as he gets in biting kisses and muffled groans.

It's frightening how they fit together so perfectly. Frightening how Voldemort completely loses his hold on sanity and consciousness and yet his body keeps going purely on instinct knowing only to rut and drive in deeper and faster and never ever stop. Frightening how Harry is there – at the bottom of this new unknown madness – ready to catch him with scorching lips and greedy hands. It's truly and completely _terrifying_ how, as they spiral deeper into sweet oblivion, Voldemort realises that he will never again feel complete without this grace and glory surrounding him.

 _Potter was a trap all along,_ Voldemort thinks distantly as the lights of kingdom come flash brightly before his eyes, just within his reach. And when he comes back to his senses and finds Harry cupping his face gently, expression full of genuine _wonder_ , the Dark Lord sighs and allows these beautiful beautiful snares to capture his soul completely.

* * *

Voldemort is unfamiliar with raw, uncontrollable emotions. He operates on calculation and cold logic. Now that he's so hastily gotten involved with Harry, he realises just how powerless he is in the face of such feelings. Potter is a tramp, a minx, his interests as fickle and unreliable as early spring weather. And he is but a teenage boy. Each time Voldemort looks at him, he's is struck anew with just how _young_ he is.

He tries to stay away from Potter these days, in a rather pitiful attempt to go back to the way things were before. The damage is done already though, and Voldemort knows it just as he knows that he'll never be free from this violent craving again.

Where Potter's uncanny ability to get under the Dark Lord's skin was irritating before, it is torturous now. It is impossible to be close to him without touching – r _utting and caressing, and stroking, and coiling around each other_ – and when the brat is not around – boiling, bubbling jealousy is scalding Voldemort's insides, whispering to him in hateful voices how the youngest Malfoy is spending quite a lot of time with Harry, how Potter is out more often than not lately and how much easier it would be to just lock the boy up somewhere where nobody would ever find him.

Voldemort doesn't do that though, and he doesn't particularly want to examine _why_.

Potter leaves to visit with the Weasley brood one day and by the time he returns Voldemort is snappish and gloomy, pacing the boy's bedroom anxiously. It's all because he's worried about his horcrux, he tells himself, even as a whispery voice in his mind wonders if Potter is getting too cosy with one of the ginger spawns.

"You are not allowed to go there again," Voldemort says as soon as Potter enters.

"Woah, what ha..–" Harry's words are cut off by thin lips crashing against his with enough power to bruise.

It is the first touch they shared in the last couple of weeks and Voldemort feels their magic singing between them, straining as though trying to mend his broken soul. He hauls himself away from Potter, thin strands between them rippling apart again.

"Did I make myself clear?" Voldemort's voice is as cold and composed as ever, hateful whispers in his mind subsiding with every moment of their proximity.

Something akin to hurt crosses Potter's features but he doesn't argue. Merely nods and steps further into the room. For a moment Voldemort contemplates claiming the boy again, fucking him into helpless submission, but then decides against it. He has already revealed too much to Potter with that kiss and he doesn't want to show any more weakness.

He's almost out the door when Potter speaks again.

"You think I am no better than any of your Death Eaters. That I would just betray you like that."

"And you won't?" Voldemort's eyes narrow as he turns to look at Potter, his whole body swaying like a snake ready to strike.

Potter turns around too, "Never!" he says vehemently. Then with a hint of that uncertain hurt again, "I thought... I thought you knew."

The brat _must_ be lying, there's no other possibility. Voldemort would admire his ability to pull off such a sincere expression, if it wasn't for the wounded pride thrashing inside him like a wild beast.

"Show me!" Voldemort screams, launching himself at the boy, spidery fingers digging into Potter's shoulders. Potter's eyes widen and Voldemort dives into their depths without hesitation. There's a brief resistance from the boy's recently acquired Occlumentic shields but they give way before Voldemort even tries to push them, opening wide and inviting the Dark Lord into the depths of Potter's mind.

It's just as turbulent as it was before, though not quite as painful. Potter doesn't fight him, although Voldemort can taste the bitter resentment flickering through his mind. He dissects Potter's memories with a vicious sort of scrutiny letting emotions wash over him in powerful waves. Snippets of Potter's daily flights with Draco, a warm fondness of his visit to the Weasleys mixed with some strange melancholy that Voldemort can't quite understand. He cannot comprehend most of the feelings swerving around Potter's head but drinks them up greedily.

 _There's nothing._

Voldemort searches and searches through Harry's mind but there are no hidden betrayals there. The boy is looking for ways to reconcile him with muggles because his consciousness doesn't agree with mass slaughter. He is also contemplating stealing the Slytherin Locket back because for whatever reason he misses the thing that dwells inside it.

It is beyond Voldemort's comprehension and he waves away the innocence of these memories until he finally finds himself in Potter's eyes. Their night together plays before him and his own lustful expression looks almost demented to him. Voldemort is also shocked by the vulnerability he sees etched on his own face but Potter's mind is drowning him in heat and some kind of overwhelming tenderness and he can't really be bothered about anything else. He doesn't even notice the exact moment when he stops watching their needy kisses in Harry's mind and instead starts kissing the boy for real, clinging to the unbearable warmth of flesh.

Potter is fierce, he pushes back against Voldemort and bites white skin with cruel delight. It's unexpected and, unlike the last time, Voldemort finds himself pliant under rough fingers and enthusiastic tongue. Potter flips them around quickly and shoves Voldemort backwards into the bed. There's something predatory about the way he moves and it suddenly becomes clear why fate decided to give this particular boy to Lord Voldemort.

"I bet you're disappointed you didn't find what you were looking for," Harry whispers menacingly climbing on top of him.

Voldemort's hands roam over the boy's hips wonderingly and Potter starts clawing at the Dark Lord's robe. When it refuses to budge, Harry hisses in frustration and the fabric starts simply dissipating under his fingertips. His magic is crackling in the air around him and it's _breathtaking_.

" _Harry_..." Voldemort whispers softly, not really aware of what he's saying.

Potter's eyes flare and he lifts up his hips to shimmy out of his jeans and boxers and fling his jumper carelessly across the room. Voldemort is struck again by how graceful he is, his fluid movements reminiscent of mating dances of exotic snakes. Voldemort splays his white fingers across the boy's toned stomach, enjoying the silky texture of sweat-slicked skin and the subtle shivers that spring from his touch. Harry bends down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Voldemort's thin lips.

It's mindless and it's over way too soon. Their sleek bodies heat up and move together in a painfully perfect sync. Harry moans and leaves deep scratches on Voldemort's wraith-pale chest while Voldemort gasps and hisses and holds onto the unbearable heat of the boy. And somewhere between them their shared soul sighs sweetly and resonates with pain and longing.

Afterwards they lie tangled together, a veneer of magic the only thing protecting them from the chill in the room.

"Harry..." Voldemort starts because Potter is warm and close and still angry, so he probably needs to be addressed. He stops at the name, though, because he doesn't really knows what else to say and because things that need to be said do not bear being spoken.

Harry coils around him like _he_ 's the snake and sighs, sated and relaxed.

"This… isn't going to get resolved, is it?"

"Not in this century, I don't expect so."

The boy snorts softly, clinging to him even tighter, "Good thing the century is almost over, then."

Voldemort sighs. "You will be the death of me, Harry," he says it with a pleasant sort of certainty. He'd be surprised at how untroubled he is by that sentence but he is coming to accept the fact that his own reactions are anything but predictable when it comes to Harry.

"You really think so, huh?.. Maybe it's a good thing. That we're still figuring things out, I mean. We have an awful lot of time on our hands. It could get boring otherwise."

"Ah, yes, boredom. Our one true enemy." There's a bittersweet sort of resignation in Voldemort's voice, a fragile acceptance of the fact that he will be forever captivated by the boy lying next to him but will never truly capture him in return.

Harry laughs melodically before playfully hooking one of his legs around Voldemort's thigh. His newly awakened erection is stirring against the Dark Lord's hip. It's such an obvious ploy. There is no reason Voldemort should be distracted from his melancholy by kiss-swollen red lips or intrigued by mischievous green eyes. Potter is a bloody menace, really. And yet. The Dark Lord can't quite resist.

* * *

 **The End.**

* * *

 **Author's note:** This story took me months to complete. As in I wrote most of it in about three of weeks and then spent several months trying to find a satisfying way to end it because I have lost my original vision. So, I'm sorry if it comes off as unfocused or shallow. I tried my best. Please, let me know what you think!


End file.
